


In Places Deep

by Mello_McQueen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, POV Outsider, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-11
Updated: 2009-06-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 07:19:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mello_McQueen/pseuds/Mello_McQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A stop on the road, heading towards the end of the world. Two months and a fortnight at a crummy hotel, with a woman named Joan. Dean might just learn a few things. Dean centric.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Places Deep

**Author's Note:**

> written at: June 11, 2009.

_Bobby,_

I'm sorry. I tried. 

_.:._

_****_

Two Months, Two Weeks Before

At 8:15 in the morning, the temperature outside was a scorching one-hundred two degrees Fahrenheit. The temperature _inside_ , Dean felt, was more like one-hundred _twenty_ degrees Fahrenheit. Even with all the windows and doors propped open, and the shower in the tiny bathroom running ice cold water at full blast, the air within the cramped hotel room was suffocating. So much so, that upon waking, Dean had quickly disgarded the majority of his wardrobe, so that he was now sitting at the very edge of the bed-the one closest to the wall-wearing nothing but his boxers.

With a groan of frustration, he reached up and wiped away the sweat beading on his forehead, for the third time in the last five minutes. "Man, Sammy." He said, with barely a laugh, as he wiped his open palms against the bed sheets on either side of his legs, and shifted restlessly where he sat. "It's hotter than Hell in here, dude." Even as he spoke, Dean tried to ignore the bed closest to the open door. He tried to ignore the way it looked, perfect and untouched the way it had since the first day he had arrived. That was almost two weeks ago now.

Two weeks he'd spent here, almost completely alone.

With a deep and shaky breath, Dean tried to control the feelings inside of him, the ones that made him want to scream. Made him want to cry. Rocking back and forth, fingers twitching like a junkie with a serious addiction, he clenched his jaw tightly and looked over at the bed, sitting there, ghostly, just as empty as he was, alone. As he stared at it, trying to imagine Sammy there, sprawled out asleep across from him like he should be but wasn't, the overwhelming heat inside the dirty room began to fade away, until he didn't notice it, or the way the fabric of his boxers, damp with sweat, stuck to his legs and threatened to chafe them as he moved.

_"Excuse me?"_

Dean wasn't aware of time passing, but it must have, because the next thing he knew, there was Joan, standing in the doorway of his hotel room, with clean towels in one hand and an old broom in the other. In the suddenly all too bright light, Dean blinked sharply, before inhaling another shaky breath, and turning to her, he said: "Morning, Joan," pushing his legs together, and resisting the urge to pull at the hem of his boxers, the right leg of which, had taken the liberty of riding up quite a bit, during his temporary lapse in self awareness.

From the open doorway, Joan scowled at him, and set the broom down. She stepped into the room, crossing the distance between the two of them rapidly and thrust the pile of towels in her hand under his nose before he even knew what she was doing. Jumping backwards at the sudden movement, Dean looked, wide eyed, from the towels, to her, then back again. She rolled her eyes. "Well, don't just sit there like a lump on a log, boy!" She barked, in her usual manner, "take one." Dean quickly snatched the top towel off of the rest, and before he even had a firm grip on it, she had disappeared into the bathroom, but not before calling over her shoulder and instructing him to: "clean yourself up and stop drooling all over the place like a mangy dog!"

Dean resisted the urge to tell her to mind her own damn business " _hag_ " because, one, she couldn't be anymore than twenty years older than him, (excluding Hell that is), and two, she did have a point. Not to mention that, as cleaning ladies went, he liked her. She reminded him a great deal of Bobby, at times so much so that Dean had even entertained the idea of getting the two of them in a room together, just to see what might happen. Of course, he couldn't _really_ do that. As amusing as it might seem, the reality of seeing Bobby again was far from entertaining, and was, in fact, something he tried not to think about as he wiped at his face with the towel and took his chance to pull down the legs of his boxers before Joan could appear again.

When she did, it was with a look of anger upon her face. "Boy!" She growled, one hand on her hip, the other brandishing a disposable toilet brush in his direction. Dean looked at her, and the brush warily, silently thanking God that it was apparently unused, and wondering if she was planning to hit him with it, and why. Before he could voice these questions, however, she was speaking. "Do you have _any_ idea how much water you're wasting running this shower in here?!" She demanded, taking a couple of steps closer, while punctuating each word by brandishing the pearly white brush at him.

Dean cringed, shying away from it. "...no?" He said, wondering in the back of his mind, if attempting to roll away from her and off of the bed was a good idea. The sheets were damp from the humidity, and he could feel them clinging heavily to his legs, and it seemed more likely that such an attempt would only result in him winding up on the floor in a tangled heap.

Possibly unconscious.

Although, maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing, he thought as she silently fumed, her face red, and not just from the heat. She gripped: "Gallons, boy! Gallons and gallons of perfectly good drinking water! _wasted_!" By this point, she was inches away from stabbing him in the face with the bristly brush. Death by toilet scrubber. No, definitely not happening.

Dean's eyes narrowed at the thought and he swatted the brush away, rising to his feet and letting the ghost of a temper flare up. "What do you care?" He shot back, glowering at her. "It's not like _you're_ the one paying the damn water bill!" Joan was a stout, somewhat robust women, who was in no sense of the word fat, or soft, instead being all sharp edges and no curves, and though she was a good two to three inches shorter than Dean himself, she somehow seemed to tower over him. The feeling made him, decidedly, uncomfortable but due to his stubborn nature, on most days he refused to show it. Today, was _not_ one of those days.

As her face grew even redder, and she prodded him roughly in the chest with the brush in her hand, he shrank back. "Water bill? _Water bill?_ Who the hell cares about the damn _water bill_! You're wasting _resources_! You're killing the _Earth!_ " with every word, she raised her toilet brush and brought it down upon Dean's head, until he was back down on the bed holding his hands above his head in an attempt to defend himself.

"Okay! Okay! I get it! Enough woman!" He shouted, as angry red marks began appearing on his arms. Inwardly, Dean cringed at his accidental use of the term "woman" to refer to Joan, and wondered if it might serve to agitate her further, but when she backed off he slowly let his arms drop and studied his hands in his lap. Joan huffed and walked briskly back into the bathroom as he did so, and he was left alone in the front room to mutter under his breath about crazy vegetarian tree huggers.

Silence filled the room, broken only by the occasional sound of Joan's movements in the bathroom, and Dean's own breathing, until she poked her head out of the bathroom and looked at him thoughtfully, around the corner of the wall. He looked back: "what?" he said, with slight agitation and regretted it immediately, as her jaw tightened defensively and she scolded him: _"Don't you 'what' me, boy!"_ before disappearing back into the bathroom.

Dean sighed, falling back on the bed and staring up at the ceiling. "Sorry," he said to her in the next room, wondering if she would be able to hear him through the walls. "I'm not trying to be an ass, Joan. You've been good to me. . .but I. . .I'm just-"

"Hot?" came the muffled voice through the wall, cutting him off, and he looked towards the bathroom to see her step out again, this time lacking the toilet brush, though her hands were now incased in thick yellow gloves. Dean turned his gaze from her and looked back up at the ceiling with a sigh.

He ignored the double entendre in her statement, and said: "Sure, why not?"

"Well," she said, after a moment, "they've put in a work order. So, I'm sure the air conditioning will be fixed . . .sometime next month." Dean groaned, sitting up slowly at hearing this information. Given the state of the hotel, it was probably true, he decided and let out a long suffering sigh.

"Great. Just great." He said, more to himself than to Joan, as he bowed his head.

In response, Joan shrugged, and disappeared back into the bathroom. He heard the sound of the toilet flushing, and then she was back, pulling off the yellow gloves, and using the back of her hand to brush strands of dark somewhat greying hair out of her hazel eyes. She sighed, as she turned and picked up the trash can from beneath the sink, removing the near empty bag and replacing it with a fresh one. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw her walk back over to the open door, and deposit the trash bag onto her cart. Then she stood there, one hand resting on it as she looked at him, sitting there on the bed. She sighed, again, but it was a different sort of sigh.

"Dean. . ." she said, after a moment, and her voice was neither soft nor edge-like as she stepped back into the room and kicked the door closed with her heel. She walked over and stood beside the empty bed, staring down at him. Dean, sitting there unashamedly in nothing but his boxers, his body sticky and drenched with sweat, hands resting loosely in his lap, as he stared at them, his eyes reflecting the ghost of something she couldn't hope to see. She knew this look, of course, had seen it before, on the night Dean had first arrived at this place, this decaying hotel in the middle of nowhere. She remembered, because it was always hot here, but that night. . .that night it had seemed close to freezing when Dean drove up at nearly three-thirty in the morning in his sleek black Impala. . .

.:.

_**Three Months Before** _

Joan stood just outside the front office of Steve's Motel with Mr. Daniels, the proprietor, the two of them marveling at the strange, unexpected chill in the air when he arrived. Pulling up, the man parked in one of the empty spaces on the other side of the parking lot and Mr. Daniels had quickly disappeared back inside, to wait for his future tenant, and he did, rather anxiously, for nearly fifteen minutes, along with Joan who busied herself by cleaning up around the front office, for the fourth time in the last six hours. Mr. Daniels was a very untidy, disorganized, man with a bad attitude and very little patience, or so Joan had learned that night, as he thumped his fingers against the countertop and muttered under his breath about snot-nosed brats keeping their elder's waiting.

 _"_ Jane! See what's keeping that man, will you?" He had demanded, after having expressed this for the eighth or ninth time.

Joan had stopped in cleaning and sighed exasperatedly. "It's Joan." She corrected him, for the millionth time it seemed, as he eyed her from behind the counter.

He made a distasteful sound, akin to hawking a loogi or spitting tobacco, like there was something vile stuck in the back of his throat and glowered at her. "Whatever, just go see will you." He said, waving his hand and shooing her towards the door. Tightening her jaw, she turned away and making a face, she resisted the urge to turn around and throw the wet rag in her hands at her employer. Instead, she dropped it onto the windowsill with a wet plopping sound, and stepped outside into the cold air. A shiver passed through her, as she looked up at the moon, barely visible beneath a blanket of thick black clouds, then turned her attention to the black car parked just out of sight of the office windows.

Pursing her lips in worry, she turned and looked back at Mr. Daniels, standing behind the counter. He gave her a nasty, impatient look, and jerked his head in a _'get going or you're gonna regret it'_ kind of way, and she took in a deep breath taking hesitant steps towards the car and it's occupant.

"Please, God, don't let it be another crazy guy with a gun. Twice in one month is more than I can take." She muttered under her breath, hearing the sound of her soft soled shoes padding loudly against the concrete, as she approached the vehicle. "And if it is," she added as an after thought, now able to make out the outline of the driver, sitting bent over the steering wheel, in the darkness. "At least let me live long enough so that I can sue my boss, that S.O.B. ...Okay, God?" She stopped talking, then, standing just behind the car. She squinted at the driver, through the rear glass, and blinked. He was shaking, almost violently, and a new fear went through her mind.

 _Oh, God. What if he's having some kind of seizure?_ She thought, taking a step forward, and glancing anxiously back towards the office, debating on whether or not she should run back right now and tell her S.O.B. of a boss to call an ambulance, because she didn't think she could deal with this kind of thing herself, having only managed to sit through two hours of her High School's optional two-month Medical Training program. Of course, before she could even take a step backwards, she heard it: that soft, strangled sound. A broken kind of uncontrollable sobbing.

"Jesus," she mouthed, unconsciously approaching the driver's side window and looking in through the misty glass. The man was sitting there, hunched over the steering wheel, his hands gripping it so tightly, they were bone white as he rested his head there. His face was turned towards her, but his eyes were closed, and she didn't think she'd ever seen such an awful expression-the man's face, tear soaked was ashen, as he sat, his body shaking with violent sobs, and the sounds. . .the sounds he made were tortured, like the cries of a dying child.

It was horrible, and Joan wasn't able to stop herself from letting out a strangled cry of her own, as she stood there looking in at him.

Even before the sound escaped her lips, her hands were moving, shooting upwards in an effort to stop the noise from spilling out, but it was too late, and inside the car, the man's eyes snapped open at the sound. Joan tried to take a step back, away from the car, but she couldn't move, and likewise, the man in the car seemed frozen with his hands upon the wheel, face turned towards her, he gazed with eyes, bright green and haunted. The eyes of a man that had been thrown from Heaven, down into the deepest reaches of Hell.

Staring at him, Joan swallowed thickly, before slowly prying her hands away from her mouth. They were shaking, and her arms had locked up at the elbows, holding them out in front of her in an awkward, not particularly defensive way. She continued to stare at him, her mouth moving only in the slightest as she made an effort to speak. To say something. Anything to break the deafening silence. She thought about asking if he was alright, which seemed, in the back of her mind, stupid and pointless because, clearly, he was the farthest thing from alright.

Still, she tried, and when finally she did speak, all that came out was another horrified: "Oh, God."

This, she became instantly aware, was the wrong the to say, as whatever force that had held the man there seemed to shatter at her words, and he moved with incredible speed, sitting back and slamming the driver's side door open. The edge of it only just missed her as she jumped back on reflex, eyes looking at the door momentarily before snapping up to the man, who had risen to his feet and was standing there straight backed while his whole body shook with some pent up emotion. It was the very same thing Joan's ex-huband used to do, just before he lost it, Joan realized, thinking of the man she had divorced a little over seven years ago.

Of course, this man was nothing like her ex-husband, who had been somewhat old, and balding. No, this man was far too young, with a head full of hair, and not an ounce of fat on his body. He also, somehow, seemed much, _much_ older.

Instinctively, Joan steeled herself for whatever he was about to say, or do, and wondered if she would be able to fight even halfway decently in the blue lace uniform she presently wore, though she need not have worried. Unlike her ex-husband's fits, which almost always ended in someone getting hurt, whatever force had possessed this man seemed to fade almost as quickly as it had come, taking with it what little strength he had left, and the man collapsed against the open door, momentarily, before crumpling to the ground. He sat there in a daze, and she watched him take in a few deep breathes, perhaps in an effort to calm himself, or maybe to keep from crying again. Either way, it didn't work, because a moment later he was shaking again, and thick tears were streaming down his face, but this time, he didn't make a sound.

Inwardly, Joan was grateful for this, as she watched him and a different instinct took over. A maternal one she hadn't felt since that morning, eight years ago. . .

Without thinking too much about it, she moved forward and reached out her hand, resting it gently on the man's shoulder as he fisted a hand in his hair. Tightening his grip, he turned his face away, into the side of the car door and said: "It's all my fault."

Expression softening greatly, she knelt down beside him, and waited, knowing full well that it was best not to ask him the obvious question. If he wanted to tell her, he would. No, for the moment, it was best if she remained silent, so she did. She sat, and waited until he had stopped crying. Until all he could do was sit and stare at the dirty ground beneath him. Then he said: "I couldn't save him. I couldn't save Sam," and he looked at her, and she looked back, nodding softly though she had no idea who Sam was, or what it was this man had failed to save him from.

"Come, on. Let's get you inside." She said, after a moment, and then it was his turn to nod as she put one arm around him, and hoisted him to his feet. Once he was standing, she propped him up against the car, and reaching inside the driver's side door for his keys and the wallet laying on the seat. She locked and closed the door, and he just stood there watching her. "Come, on." She said again, her arm back around him, she gently began to guide him towards the front office, where Mr. Daniels had no doubt fallen asleep at his desk again.

She had only managed to take a few steps though, before he stopped walking and she was forced to stop with him. His eyes wondered around the near deserted parking lot with the look of someone who had been wondering around, lost for a very long time. He frowned. "Where am I?" He asked, not in any way panicked but there was definitely confusion in his voice. Joan tightened her grip, instinctively.

"You're at Steve's Hotel." She said, carefully. "I'm just guessing, but I suppose you need a place to stay, right?"

The man nodded, wordlessly, than frowned, looking at her with a strange expression. "You. . .you're not. . .a demon are you?" he asked, and she blinked at him.

 _A demon? Is he serious?_ She thought in alarm. "No," she said calmly. "I'm just a cleaning lady, . . .you know, a maid?" She motioned down at her wardrobe.

The man looked her up and down. "Oh." he said, and leaned against her again, as she added:

"My name's Joan. And yours is?"

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, as she started walking again, slower than before, do to his weight. There was a slight frown at the corner of his mouth and she wondered vaguely if maybe the guy had amnesia, but after a moment he lowered his gaze. "Dean." He said, softly. "My name's Dean."

Joan smiled. "Nice to meet you, Dean." She said, a sort of pre-programmed sense of politeness taking over, before she gasped as she was forced to a sudden, unexpected stop by the man, _Dean_ , who looked at her with an expression that was confused and intensely serious, at the same time. "Are you alright?" She asked, and the man blinked.

"Yeah I guess, but. . ." He began softly, his brow furrowing as he looked up towards the front office and the glowing neon lights above the door. His green eyes moved back to her. "Whose Steve?"

Joan had to stifle her laughter at the question, as she replied: "Boy, I haven't the slightest idea."

.:.

_**Two Months, Two Weeks Before** _

"How long are you planning on staying here?" She asked, wiping her hands on the apron she wore around her waste. In response, Dean shrugged and shook his head softly from side to side, before reaching up and running his fingers through the damp locks. "Boy, shrugging doesn't count as an answer." She said, pointedly and he made a noise that was half sigh, half groan.

"I don't know, Joan." He said, feeling frustrated and more than a little tired. "A while I guess." Inwardly, he knew the muttered response wouldn't be good enough from the minute he thought to say it, but he honestly didn't know what to tell her.

Beside him, Joan crossed her arms over her chest and scowled. "'I guess'," she mimicked, "isn't an answer either." Then she groaned, and sat down on the very edge of the bed beside him, so that she was in danger of simply sliding off. With a grudging acceptance, Dean scooted over to accommodate her, and she gave him a soft smile, before sighing. "Look, boy," she began again, with a serious edge. “You’ve already been here for two weeks, and you're running out of cash to pay rent, for this room."

Feeling a sense of déjà vu, Dean rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. "I told you already, Joan, I'm not getting a job. I wont be here long enough to need one."

She inhaled a sharp, deeply frustrated breath. "And yet, you're planning on staying for a while." He shrugged. "Look, if you won't get a job, the least you could do is move into one of the smaller rooms. It's cheaper, so you'll be able to stay here longer on the money you've got right now, and there's a pretty respectable A.C."

 _An A.C.?_ Dean almost moaned at the thought. As it stood, he thought he might kill for a working air conditioner, or even one of those tiny little fans in the main office, then the rest of her words caught up to him and he shot her a hard look. "I'm not leaving here, Joan. I need the other bed." The look she gave back, made him think she was either about to slap him, or start banging her head against the wall in a fury.

"Damn it, boy!" She swore, rising to her feet. "What the hell do you need two beds for? You're not even using that one!"

"I told you," he said, with the same unwavering expression. "It's for Sammy."

_I couldn't save him. I couldn't save-_

"Sam?" She whispered softly, her brow furrowing in confusion as she looked down at him, sitting there, rocking back and forth again, like he found himself doing whenever he thought of Sam and suddenly there was a lump in his throat, and he knew that they were there, the tears welling up in his eyes again. With a forced laugh, Dean quickly turned his head away from her. He didn't want her to see him cry, this woman that was so close to being a complete stranger, and yet the same one he clung to so desperately. Even so, he knew she knew he was crying. He knew she could see it in the way his shoulders shook and his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.

And now Dean could feel her hesitation as she struggled to find the right way to ask what it was she wanted to know: _Where is Sam? What happened to him? What happened to_ you _?_ He knew she wanted to ask it, because this wasn't the first time they had had this conversation. He remembered, even if he told her he didn't. He remembered that she had asked him the same thing the night he had arrived, and rented a double room.

_"Is someone else coming?"_

_"Yeah, my brother. My brother's coming."_

_"Oh, what's his name? ...I, it's for the list. I need to write it on the list..."_

_"...Sam. His name is Sam."_ And he had cried then, so she had checked him in without another word. Dean figured she must have stayed with him there, because she was sitting in one of the chairs across the room when he awoke, looking at him with a concerned and somewhat frightened expression. He knew it was because he had been screaming, even if she had never told him that, because he woke up, almost every night screaming, now. At the time though, he didn't know it, so he had just looked at her with a dazed expression.

 _"Hi."_ He said, and he had no idea who she was. For a moment, he had wondered if she was an angel, and even voiced the question, but no, she was just a cleaning lady, a cleaning lady who made him instant coffee, that tasted terrible for the very fact that it was, in fact, instant, and also caffeine free. And she had taken care of him, the day after, that was nothing but a nightmarish blur that echoed with the memories of pain and loss. Then, when she thought he was well enough he figured, she asked him all those questions. All those terrible questions, questions he had almost answered.

Questions he refused to answer now, because the answers made him die inside. So he sat there, at the edge of the bed and forced himself to stop crying. Then he stared her down until she gave up trying to form the questions running through her mind, and gave another sigh. The woman was, decidedly, fond of doing that. "Okay." She relented. "We'll. . .we'll work something out." She said, though it was clear she was at a complete loss as of what to do, then the corners of her mouth turned up softly as she looked at him, and walking over to the door, and pulling it open, she stepped outside.

He thought she would leave then, but she only rustled around in her cart, before returning with an armload of clean blankets, and that annoying, impatient expression set firmly in place again. Dean smiled at the sight of it, as she walked back into the room and sat the clean blankets down on "Sammy's bed", then she looked at him, sitting there with that smile on his face. "What the hell are you doing staring at me boy!" She snapped at him, so loud he almost jumped in surprise. "Get your ass up, got to turndown this bed sometime _today_." She emphasized the last word by picking up one of the pillows at the head of his bed, and slinging it at him.

Jumping up and skidding across the room, Dean held the pillow she had thrown at him to his chest, and watched as she began to violently yank the old sheets off the bed, muttering under her breath:

"Mangy dog."

.:.

_**Two Months, Thirty Minutes Before** _

"Good afternoon, sunshine." Joan said, as she approached Dean at his table, and deposited a plate of food in front of him. He looked up at her tiredly from the paper on the table and frowned as she eyed the mussed up state of his hair and added: "or is it morning?" His eyes traveled down towards the steaming plate of food on the table, without comment.

"I didn't order that." He said, simply and she nodded.

"I know. I ordered for you, boy. You look like you could use a good meal." She said, entertaining the idea of sliding into the seat across from him. Being a diner owned by the hotel itself, it only ever got the occasional customer on Fridays, and Regional Holidays. Thankfully, today was neither. Even so, Mr. Daniels was standing behind the counter up front, and eyeing her with a dark look. He had a strict policy about "fraternizing" with tenants and customers. Apparently, this policy was even stricter when said tenant wasn't actually _paying_ for their own food. "Take it out of my paycheck." were not words the appealed to Mr. Daniels particularly.

Especially when his cleaning lady, who just so happened to double as a waitress on occasion, was the one responsible. She shot him a glare as he cleared his throat loudly across the room, and turned back to Dean.

"So, late night with your girlfriend?" She asked, even as he reached over and flicked a piece of fried okra off the plate. Her eyes narrowed at him, and Dean withdrew his hand.

"Sorry." He mumbled, then: " I don't have a girlfriend."

Joan blinked. "...you don't have a girlfriend?" She repeated in awe, thinking of several women she knew presently that would _jump_ at the chance to date him. Or possibly just jump him. Either one.

"..."

Dean blanched at her, and she let her mouth drop open. "Seriously? There's no one?" She asked, again just to be sure.

Dean shrugged. "Well, there was this angel once... " He said, letting his voice trail off as she rolled her eyes towards the ceiling.

"Ah, hell, boy. I don't want to hear about any lost love business. You can't be dwelling on things like that. You've got to get yourself a girlfriend, _now_." As she spoke, Joan leaned forward and glimpsed the letter on the table, the one Dean had been writing before she had arrived. The blue inked pen in Dean's hand was still poised over it as she read the words written there:

_Bobby,_

_I'm sorry. I tried._

When he noticed her looking, Dean pulled the letter closer to himself, shielding it from view. He glared icily up at her as though to say: mind your own damn business women. Joan raised an eyebrow in response. "Whose Bobby?" She asked, then, even though she knew she was being nosy. In the back of her mind, she registered that this was one of the people Dean had screamed about in his sleep. Dean's hand clenched around the paper in his hands, and it crumpled into a misshapen lump.

He squeezed it tightly. "...he's my..." He started, but seeming to think better of what he had been about to say, he let his voice trail off.

The corner of Joan's lips turned upwards. "Oh. So you bat for the other team then?" She asked, teasingly and Dean's head snapped up, eyes wide.

"What? No!" He exclaimed, "...God, no. Bobby's kind of like. . .my old man. Or, he used to be."

"Ditched you did he?" Joan asked and Dean shook his head.

"No." He said. "It's more like I'm the one that did the ditching."

"Oh" Joan, hesitated. "...so where is he now then?"

Dean didn't respond right away, instead he reached forward and picked up a piece of okra, popping it into his mouth. He made a face as he chewed, then: "Don't know. I haven't spoken to him since the day I wound up here." There was something in his voice when he said that that made Joan wonder if this Bobby, like Sam, were even still alive but as she opened her mouth to ask, why or what happened, the bell over the door rang and a little girl walked in, holding her mother's hand.

As though she couldn't see them making their way across the checkered floor of the restaurant, Mr. Daniels leaned over the counter and shouted: "Jane! Customers!" in a loud, gravelly voice.

"I can see them!" Joan hollered back, ("and it's Joan") glaring at him from where she stood. The women eyed her sympathetically as she took a seat, and Joan turned back to Dean. She pushed the plate of food forward. "Eat that." She ordered, and Dean scowled at her, popping another piece of okra into his mouth as she walked off to tend to the woman and child.

.:.

_**Two Months Before** _

"I don't like him. Jane, get him the hell out of here."

"It's Joan, sir."

"Whatever. Get him the hell out of here."

"You want me to kick out your best tenant?" Joan asked, sighing exasperatedly as she dipped a french fry in ketchup and took a slow bite. The old man across from her curled his chapped and wrinkle lips, eyes squinting across the room at Dean sitting in his usual spot, in the booth beside the window. He was watching them, their images reflected perfectly in the tinted glass of the hotel diner-if it could be called that-and due to the rooms perpetual emptiness, eavesdropping on their conversation. Not that he needed too, he'd heard the same conversation every day for the last month. It never went anywhere.

"He's a _fraud!_ " The old man hissed, somewhat predictably, as his head swiveled back and forth, trying to see if anyone was listening-and Dean figure he was hoping someone _was-_ but barring a women and two year old little girl with blonde pigtails on the other side of the room, they were the only ones present, and Dean was the only one listening. As was always the case, as the man divulged Dean's secrets to his employee: "All those credit cards he's been using? They're all brand new, and they've all got different last name's on 'em!"

Unfortunately for the old man, and very fortunately for Dean, though this was true and Joan was well aware of it, she wasn't the sort of person to care about such things. As proof, she took a swig of the Diet Pepsi (with lime) sitting in front of her, and rolled her eyes at the old man. "Oh, get over it, would you?" She said, clearly annoyed at having to hear the old man complain. "Dean's a good kid-"

_What the hell do you mean 'kid'?_

-he's just a little down on his luck, right now. And anyway, the governments a corrupt and wicked place, always ripping us off. As far as I'm concerned, it's about time someone ripped them off right back." Then she looked at the old man with a knowing expression and said: "Besides, what was it again that you were arrested for last year?"

In the glass, Dean saw the old man's ears turn a bright red, and he stuttered over his words before leaning in and whispering to her harshly. "I told you not to mention that! I swear, I'll fire you!" He threatened, but of course, he wouldn't especially since, as Dean had learned, she was the only one willing to work for him in this town. Still, the man eyeballed her across the table, and she looked calmly back. Then he huffed and sat back in his chair. "That boy's trouble." He told her, and Dean watched him glaring at him in the mirror. He didn't react, instead, he took a swig of the beer in front of him, and pretended not to notice what the man was doing, or saying.

"-every night, I tell you. He goes out, every night. Don't know what the hell he thinks he's doing, leaving in the middle of the night, but I do know that boy's up to something. Hell, he's probably off getting _creamed_." The old man spit the word out like it was contagious, and Dean took another swig of his beer, trying his best not to laugh. Despite being a quick learner, it had taken him some time to realize that this was the old man's way of saying that he thought Dean was some kind of drug addicted hooligan.

With a deep breath, Dean forced the laughter boiling up inside of him down, and tuned back into their conversation just in time to hear the man commenting on Dean's living habits. "He's a freak, Jane-

" _Joan_."

"-He throws salt all over that room. _Salt_. Damn superstitious nut, is what he is. Thinks a bunch 'a white crystals 'er gonna keep the demons out. The boy's damn crazy." Dean tried not to tense at the word "demons" and bit down on his lower lip. Outside he could hear the sound a gravel crunching under the tires of a car, as it pulled into the parking lot in front of the main office, and behind him Joan sighed in frustration, beating the heel of her open hand against the surface of the table.

"God, Jack! Give it a rest will you." She said, louder than was obviously intended, as the mother on the other side of the room looked up from trying to coax the spoon-er choo-choo train, into her little girl's mouth. At the same time, said little girl burst into loud, wailing tears, and through the noise, Dean almost missed Joan's whispered words to her boss.

"So what if the guy's got problems? Everyone does, not that you give the slightest bit of damn. Hell, all you care about is yourself and how much money you can wrangle out of these people, and don't think for a second that I don't know that's why you haven't thrown him out of here yet, or why you let him rent that expensive double, and charge him for two people, even though he's the only one staying there! Right? I mean, you wouldn't give a damn if that brother of his ever showed up would you?" She demanded, her voice never raising though her face had turned an angry red, as she glared down at him and said, in an icy tone: "Boy's been to Hell and back, and now he has to deal with greedy bastards like you. It's sick."

Then with a flourish she reached over and dumped her drink onto the counter. It spilled over into the man's lap before he had time to register what she had done, then he was up and cursing at her as he rushed off into the back room and the little girl in the pigtails wailed even harder as her mother dragged her past Dean, and out to the car. Dean heard the car screech as they drove off, and the room was quiet, as he sat there, at his table by the window and Joan remained on her feet by the counter, her hands clenching and unclenching at her side as she fumed. And then, quite unexpectedly she was standing before Dean, leaning across the table with her hands flat against it's surface.

He looked away from the tinted glass and up into her bright red face, and the angry expression that crumpled away as she looked at him. "I'm sorry." She said, and she kept staring, so he stared back for a long minute, before reaching over and picking up the bottle beside him. He took a deliberate swig before speaking.

"That was unexpected." He said, and at his words, the tension in her body dissipated, and she groaned, leaning into the table.

"I know, I'm sorry." She said. He just shrugged at her.

"Whatever." He returned, mimicking what he had come to think of as the old man's favorite word to use when dealing with Joan. She rolled her eyes and smiled at him, then, and he smirked softly, not allowing himself to dwell on what it was she had actually done, or rather, in this case, said. In the back of his mind, though, Dean was itching to tell her. Itching to tell her that the old man was right, even if he didn't know what he was talking about, he was right. The salt. . .

. . .it wouldn't keep the demons out. Not forever.

Across the table, Joan groaned again. "Damn it, I need a smoke." She said, pushing away from Dean suddenly.

Blinking, Dean opened his mouth to say that he thought she was quitting, but she was already out the door, and no doubt, halfway to the cigarette machine.

.:.

_**Two Months, Three Weeks, Four Days Before** _

"Shit, lady, you make terrible coffee." This was the first thing Dean said to Joan, after having recovered from whatever horrors he had suffered previously. Standing beside him, in the dim light of the hotel room, Joan was both relieved and extremely pissed off to hear this statement. Relieved, because this sentence was the first real thing he had said to her that wasn't just a string of incoherent screams of pain and rage, and cries for people whose name's were burned into her mind, from her visits to his room, five to six times a day, but whose faces and often genders, Joan didn't know, specifically the three persons: Sam, Cass and Bobby, whom he had, in his delirium, asked for most frequently.

On the other hand, these words he spoke now were extremely insulting, and in the back of her mind, as Joan felt a sense of indignation rise up inside of her, she tried to remember the ethical code used when dealing with annoying tenants-be polite, courteous, and-it failed her. "Wash your mouth out with soap, boy! I didn't take care of you just so you could bitch and moan like some kind of whiny dog."

Dean looked at her over the rim of his cup, and Joan stood up straighter, trying not to think of what might happen when he filed a complaint against her and handed it in to Mr. Daniels. As this thought raced through her mind, a soft red tent coloured Dean's cheeks and he turned his eyes away from her, with a muttered apology. She relaxed, then, and stood silently waiting for him to say something, when he didn't, she reached over and pulled out the chair across from him at the tiny wooden table and sat down.

"So, your name's Dean?" She asked, and he looked back up at her but remained silent and she decided to take this as a yes, before adding: "I'm Joan," just incase he had forgotten. Across the table, he nodded and took another sip of coffee, despite his professing that it was terrible.

"I know." He said, and his voice was as scratchy as the dark prickly hairs on his unshaven face. Joan pursed her lips, and tapped her chewed off nails on the hard-wooden surface of the table during the awkward silence that followed, until Dean cleared his throat.

"Thanks for the other day." He said embarrassedly, and she shrugged nonchalantly, as though this was something she did often. It wasn't, of course, and in the back of her mind, Joan silently hoped she never had to do it again. It had, after all, cost her almost two days pay, and taking care of sick tenants suffering from short-term dementia was definitely _not_ in the job description.

Joan sucked thoughtfully on her tongue, thinking that if ever there were a time to inquire as to what had happened to this man- and hope to get a clear answer- it was now, but as she opened her mouth to speak, Dean put the cup of coffee in his hands-that shook softly from time to time-down upon the table with no effort whatsoever to be gentle. The light cream coloured liquid sloshed over the rim of the cup, pooling on the table's already warped surface, and seeping into the cracks there. "Not to sound like a whiny dog," he said sharply, as though anticipating Joan's verbal assault and launching a preemptive strike against it, "could you keep anything I might have said or done to yourself, please?"

Joan blinked in surprise, then her eyes narrowed softly, suspiciously. "And what might I have seen you say or do?" She asked, feeling this was the best approach to take under the circumstances. He glared openly at her at the question, then:

"Go away."

Joan 'hmphed' at his disrespectful attitude, and standing, plucked up the cup of coffee on the table, disappearing with it out the door. As it slammed shut behind her, Joan heard him give a shout of indignation, and the corners of her mouth turned up into an amused smirk, as she went.

.:.

_**One Month, One Week Before** _

Monday morning found Dean in a less than pleasant mood. At least, that was the case when Joan entered the front office, and found him leaning against the check in desk, a pen in one hand, pad in the other, and cell phone held haphazardly between his ear and left shoulder. As Joan walked passed him, on her way to the supply closet at the back of the building, she caught a glimpse of the sour expression on his face, as he stood there, eyes cast up towards the ceiling in, what she thought of as a silent cry of: _Why me, God?_

When he saw her looking, he took in a quick breath and held it for a moment, exhaling suddenly when a voice came on the phone.

"Oh, yes, thank you." He said aloud to no one in particular, before placing the pad in his hand down upon the counter and reaching up to get a better grip on the phone. "Hello, yes. My name is Dean-" he glanced down at the pad in his hand "Spiegelman. Yes. I would like to change my number." He said, sounding desperate and hopeful at the same time, then his jaw tightened. "No, look lady, I don't want a premium package. I just want to change my number."

A pause.

"My credit card number? Yeah, okay." He skimmed down the pad, eyes searching for the wayward number. "Hang on." Joan, leaned up against the other side of the counter and watched him fish into his back pocket. Pulling out his wallet, he began skimming over the numerous different cards there, until he found the one labeled: Dean Spiegelman.

"Okay, I've got it. It's- _what do you mean you're going to put me on hold?!_ "

There was a moment of silence and Joan raised an eyebrow at him from across the counter. He scowled, and pulled the phone away from his ear. "They put me on hold." He seethed, and Joan's lips twitched in amusement.

Finally she shook her head, and looked at him seriously. "Boy, why do you do this to yourself?" She asked, and he furrowed his brow at her.

"Do what to myself?"

Joan's eyes rolled upwards. "Do this," she motioned towards the phone in his hand and the overused pad on the counter. "Honestly, I understand not answering your phone calls, and turning the damn thing off when you want to ignore people, but why change your number every week?" She crossed her arms over her chest and raised an eyebrow. "Who are you running away from? Bobby? Or someone else?"

Dean frowned at her in the dim light. "It's no one." He said, and turned away, signaling that there was nothing more he had to say. She sighed, and took the opportunity to disappear into the back room for more Pinesol. When she returned, Dean was yelling into the phone:

"Damn it! _You're_ customer service, woman! _I'm_ the customer! _SERVICE ME_!"

Another pause. "Thank you!" Dean shouted, and with that he pulled the phone away from his ear, snapped it closed and spinning on his heel, he banged the top of his newly renumbered phone against the wooden surface of the counter top. It was less damaging than it looked. "I hate those people." He said, scowling as he shoved it into the inside of his pocket, as Joan set the jug of Pinesol down and made to stand beside him. Dean looked at her and groaned, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back into the counter. She mimicked his position and it was quiet for a moment, then Dean said:

"The old man says the temperature dropped three degrees since last night."

Joan looked at him, and sighed. "Well, thank God." She said, only half sarcastically, and he tensed beside her."Yeah. . ." he agreed, then: "too bad there isn't one."  
  
.:.  
  
 **One Month Before**

"Two months. . ." Dean whispered, helping Joan replace the sheets on one of the singles that had been rented out the previous night, and vacated long before the morning by a man with a shaved head. A man Dean had recognized as a fellow Hunter, if only because of the tattoo on the back of his neck. It was the same one Dean had on the left side of his chest, of course, unlike Dean, he acted completely insane.

Hell, maybe he was, Dean thought recalling how he had stood there, in the main office, his blood shot eyes darting back and forth, taking the three of them in suspiciously, as Mr. Daniels gave him the key to his room. Dean thought about how he had snatched it from the old man's hand, and looked over his shoulder, so quickly it made Dean think he might get whiplash in the morning, and then, to make it worse, he had walked from the room, _backwards_ , muttering about _them_ and wishing they would just kill him, already. Kill everyone.

Last night, though Dean had registered what the man was saying, what he was _actually saying_ , he hadn't given it any thought until just now, and as he went about helping Joan with her work, he found it difficult to think of anything else, because, really, two months ago, he had thought that the words: Apocalypse Now, actually _meant_ Apocalypse Now. Except that here he was, turning down beds in a hotel room for money, and wondering: Why _don't_ they just kill everyone?

"Boy, are you okay?" Joan asked, from the other side of the bed and Dean blinked at her, instantly aware that he had become so lost in his thoughts that he had been neglecting his duties. She raised one eyebrow at him, and Dean quickly attempted to appear nonchalant. He knew that look, after all. It was the one she gave him when she silently wanted to tell him that she knew something was wrong and that if he even thought about lying to her about whatever it was, she would kill him. Dead.

He bit down on his lower lip and let out a slow breath, deciding on a half-truth. "I've been here for two months." He told her, dropping the sheet he was still holding in his hands, and walking across the room to fall down into the ugly green arm chair with the black diamond patterns, sitting there against the wall. "Two whole months, Joan." He said again, and he looked up at the ceiling above them as she finished his job of tucking in the sheets.

"You seem surprised." She said, when she was finished, and he wondered if he really did, or if she was just guessing that that was how he really felt, because, honestly, it was.

"I am." He said, after a minute, "I mean, I guess I thought-"

"You thought you'd be somewhere else by now?" Joan asked, reaching for one of the thinner, scratchier blankets. She looked at him, and Dean nodded in response. "Where?" She asked, gently prying, though he knew she must be thinking that he thought he would be with Sam by now, and in a way, he did.

Instead he just said: "Nowhere."

"So, just not here, is that it?" Dean watched her labor with the heavy quilt out of the corner of his eye, then turned his gaze down towards the floor, and said:

"Not anywhere."

Joan froze at his words, and stood there with one hand on top of the mattress, the other pushed beneath it. She looked upset for a moment, and Dean opened his mouth to take it back, but before he could get the words out, her expression had changed, hardened, and she pulled herself upright, hands flat on her hips.

"Boy," She said in a highly threatening tone. "Don't make me slap you."

.:.

_**Three Weeks, One Day Before** _

" _Jesus_! boy, what the hell are you doing?" Joan demanded in alarm, upon pushing open the bathroom door of Dean's double hotel room-which he was, after an entire week of coherence, still the sole occupant of-and finding him sitting on the edge of the porcelain tub, downing a ninety-nine cent bottle of Cool Mint Listerine.

The bucket of cleaning supplies in her hands was quickly deposited onto the grimy tiles of the bathroom floor as she watched him finish off the bottle in his hand and drop it next to three others, two of which were already empty, and the other of which he had begun reaching for. Before his fingers could close around it, however, Joan shot forward, her leg extending, she kicked the open bottle sending it spinning into the opposite wall.

It was silent then, as they watched the greenish blue liquid leak out onto the floor, flooding into the cracks and snaking it's way through the tiles until it ran itself too thin, and stopped, but not before a great deal of it had managed to pool beside the tub, and up against Dean's bare foot. He wiggled his toes in the minty fresh mess, and stared down at it with an expression of loss which quickly turned to a kind of petulant anger, which he directed at Joan standing there beside the sink.

"Son of a _Bitch_!" He shouted his head whipping around to face her. "What the hell did you do that for?"

"What do you mean 'what the hell did I do that for'?" Joan shouted back. "Are you out of your effing mind!?" Her voice, shrill and stuck somewhere between anger at Dean's stupidity, and concern for his safety, echoed off the bare off-white walls of the room, as tears began to prickle at the corners of her eyes.

Lifting his feet up and allowing himself to fall haphazardly back into the empty bathtub, Dean drew his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms securely around them, he hid is face from view and said, "I tried." Joan swallowed thickly, as he pushed himself backwards, trying to ignore the way the edge of the faucet seemed to dig painfully into his back.

She inhaled a slow, calming breath. "Tried what?" She asked, carefully. Dean raised his head, and looked at her over his folded arms, eyes misty and wet with tears, cheeks tented red from the alcohol in his system. Briefly, Joan wondered if he had managed to successfully consume enough of it so that he might answer her question.

After a moment, Dean folded back into himself, and she decided that, no, he apparently hadn't. Reaching down to pick up the bucket of cleaning supplies, Joan sighed acceptingly, just as he shifted in the tub, and spoke, his voice muffled and choked with tears. "I couldn't save him," he said, and Joan cringed. This, she had heard him say several times before, whether he was aware of it or not, and she straightened, thinking about the man Dean called Sammy.

"I couldn't save him, and I tried. . .I tried but I couldn't. I couldn't save Sammy, damn it!" With every word Dean spoke his voice rose, until finally his words were no longer broken, but angry, and as she watched him, Dean slammed himself backwards into the wall painfully, his elbow connecting with the ceramic tiles mounted there on the wall, and he screamed:

"I tried, damn you! I tried to save him, I tried and I lost everyone. . ." Dean lifted his head to look up at the ceiling, and Joan could see the tears streaming thick and heavy down his face. "I hate you, you stupid son of a bitch! Why...Why did you leave me?" He said, and Joan was crying then, although she hadn't realized it at the time. With her shoes sliding on the wet floor, she moved forward and made to sit on the edge of the tub, before hesitantly, reaching out her hand. She let it rest on Dean's shoulder as he started to sob again, his body shaking.

Joan squeezed his shoulder, and said: "It'll be alright, Dean." but he wasn't listening.

.:.

_**One Week Before** _

"Hey, Joan."

"...Dean?" Joan mumbled groggily into the telephone.

"Yeah, it's me." His voice on the other end was a low whisper.

"Dean, what time is it?"

"Damn, I don't know. Five in the morning?"

"Ugh. . .Dean, it's my day off. What the hell are you doing calling me at five in the morning?"

A pause. "I had this really bad dream." He said, and his voice was soft, embarrassed.

Joan rubbed at her temples and sighed into the phone as she sat up in bed. "Well," She said after a moment of deliberation, bleary eyes glancing over at the glowing red numbers of her alarm clock. "what was it about?" There was silence on the other end of the phone. "Dean?"

"I don't really want to talk about it." Dean snapped, defensive. Then quieter he said: "I just. . .wanted to make sure you were. . ."

"Were what, Dean?" Joan asked, concern nagging at the edge of her tired mind. She heard springs creak over the phone as he shifted in bed, and said:

"Alright. I just wanted to make sure you were alright." Quickly, Joan looked herself up and down before replying.

"I'm fine, Dean. ...are you alright?"

Another long pause. "Sure, Joan. I'm fine. Everything's fine." He said, and hung up the phone without even saying goodbye.

.:.

_**Ten Hours Before** _

Dean didn't know how to knock like a normal person, not even at two o'clock in the morning when he showed up on Joan's doorstep, soaking wet from the rain coming down in torrents outside, with a bottle of beer in one hand, and much to Joan's horror, a gun in the other. Joan's heart skipped a beat as she stood inside the safety of her apartment, and stared at Dean, his face split into thousands of tiny little pieces by the screen door. Outside, he was shivering, and through the darkness, she could just see that his eyes were red, not in a bloodshot way, but the kind of red that came from crying for hours on end. In the back of her mind, Joan wondered if he had been crying before, or after he started drinking, and then she wondered where he had gotten the gun.

She eyed it warily as she slowly unlatched the screen door, and pushed it open, stepping out onto the porch, the narrow awning just barely shielding her from the force of the rain. "Dean," She said in a soft, cautious way, wrapping the thick white night robe around herself tighter and edging towards him. He was standing just out of her reach, blinking rapidly as he watched her-presumably to clear his vision of the rainwater, and salt tears clinging heavily to his eyelashes.

"Hi, Joan." He said, as she took another cautious step forward. She smiled at him softly, her eyes glancing up at the sky, it was dark, cloudy, but otherwise clear.

"Hey, Dean." She said back, and rapt her attention to him. "What are you doing?" She spoke to him like a mother would to a small child. One that didn't realize the gun he was playing with was dangerous.

At her question, Dean's eyes moved rapidly back and forth, and his brow furrowed as he tried to find an answer to her question. Finally, his gaze settled back on her. "...I don't know." He told her honestly, and she swallowed down the lump in her throat, as she watched him. His green eyes were luminous in the darkness, like they had been the night she had met him, like they were when he saw Hell, but this time they were also glazed, and that made him unpredictable. Joan's guard rose.

"Where'd you get the gun, Dean?" She asked, and he just stared at her there for a long time, a confused look on his face. It occurred to her then that he must have forgotten that he was holding it, and she nodded her head towards the sleek black weapon. Dean's gaze traveled downwards, and he raised it up for inspection, his finger on the trigger. Joan took a step back, her heart pounding faster. "Why don't you give me that, Dean." She suggested softly, as he stared from it, to her and the frightened expression on her face.

"No, I uh. . .I can't, I need. . .I need it." Though he appeared drunk, Dean's words weren't slurred in the slightest as he spoke, but the words themselves were cause enough for alarm, fractured and confused as they were. Dean took a step forward then, and stopped, letting his hand drop to his side, and Joan saw his index finger tighten on the trigger. She inhaled a sharp breath, and instinct took over.

"Damn it, boy! You give me that gun right now or I swear I'll beat you senseless!" Joan's voice was sharp, and to her surprise, showed no hint of the rising fear inside of her. It also seemed to be effective, as Dean raised the bottle back to his lips again, and took another long drink, he stumbled back, but his right hand came forward and he held the gun out to her with closed eyes. Joan stepped forward, then, out into the rain, and reaching down she gently pried his finger's from the gun without the slightest bit of resistance from him.

Holding the weapon, heavy in her hand, Joan stared at it and took in three or four deep calming breathes before reaching her free hand out for Dean, still standing in the rain. The bottle in his hand was empty, but he didn't seem to notice as he stood there, with his face turned upward, feeling the icy rain beat down upon his face. Joan sighed. "Come on, boy. Get inside before you catch your death." She insisted, taking hold of the black leather fabric of Dean's favorite-and apparently _only_ jacket, and ushering him inside.

"Oh," Dean said in a dazed way, "okay." And he walked inside. Joan followed behind him, but not before dumping the shiny metal gun into the open trash bin on the side of the porch and watching it sink far beneath the surface of the murky water.

.:.

Eight minutes later, Joan stood in front of Dean in the small bathroom watching as he dripped dirty water onto her once white carpet, as she scowled at the mud caked heavily onto his clothes. "Boy, what the hell were you doing?" She demanded, as he stood there shivering and she reached around him to place a bundle of newly washed clothes-a pair of ratty old jeans, and a blue, grey, and white flannelled shirt that, even in his cloudy state of mind, Dean managed to eye disdainfully- onto the countertop, beside the sink. "Digging up graves?"

It was meant as a joke, but Dean looked at her seriously when he said: "If I told you the answer was yes, would you be mad at me?" There was a kind of childish fear in his voice when he asked this, and Joan shook her head slowly as she reached a hand to help him shrug out of his soaked and muddy clothes.

"No," She replied firmly, willing it to be so. "But it would help my position somewhat if you'd at least tell me what it is you thought you were doing." It wasn't a question, but a statement of fact. Even so, Dean seemed to think it required an answer, whether because of the alcohol in his system, or because he thought he owed it to her somehow, she didn't know, but he opened his mouth and said:

"I dug up her bones."

Joan didn't bother to ask whose bones he had dug up, because as it stood, she doubted even Dean knew the answer to that. Instead, she concentrated on keeping her hands from shaking as she helped him shrug out of the jacket, before discarding it in the bottom of the tub, and taking hold of the hem of his shirt. It went up and over his head with minimal difficulty, along with the undershirt he wore beneath it, and Joan dropped them with a plop onto the jacket.

"Empty your pockets." She instructed then, and watched as Dean fished around inside the wet fabric, pulling out an assortment of odd items including his room key, cell phone, wallet, a watch, four different sheets of folded paper, a crumpled McDonalds wrapper from his inside pocket and two dollars forty-seven cents in change. He handed her each item one at a time, and said: "I had to salt and burn her bones."

At his words, Joan had to swallow down the lump rising in her throat, before asking: "Why?" then, as she ushered him inside the tub she added: "Jeans and boxers off. Soap. Shampoo. Hot and cold." She touched each tap as she said this, and Dean nodded slowly to show that he had understood, before he began attempting to shrug out of the remainder of his clothes and she quickly moved to close the shower curtain, but before she could he reached out and stopped her.

His luminous green eyes, the ones that had seen both Heaven and Hell looked at her intensely for a long moment, then he said something Joan didn't think she would soon forget, if ever: "I wanted. . .to lay her spirit to rest."

.:.

Once he had showered and dressed, Joan offered Dean the fold out couch in the living room, which he helped her pull out before collapsing backwards onto it with his arms spread wide. Joan decided it was a bit too small for him, length wise, as he feet hung over the edge, but Dean didn't seem to mind as he lie there, dressed in her husbands old clothes, staring up at the ceiling with thoughtful albeit worn expression on his face. Watching him look from her to the empty hook mounted on the wall, Joan could feel the weight of the cordless phone inside the pocket of robes and sighed.

"Honestly?" She asked, and Dean nodded. "I thought about it, but I couldn't."

This answer should have relieved Dean, at least that's what she would have thought, instead, he sat upright at her statement, the curious expression on his face fading to one that was somewhere between pissed off and utter disbelief. "Dude, what the hell is the matter with you?" he demanded, and Joan crossed her arms tightly over her chest. Dean, however, all but ignored the scandalized look she gave him at being referred to as a 'dude', and instead he narrowed his eyes at her. "Jesus, I don't believe this!" He said, slamming his fist down upon the firm surface of the bed. "A guy you barely know shows up on your doorstep at two in the morning, with a _gun,_ and you offer him a shower and a place to sleep? Damn it, Joan, you're supposed to call the cops! The _cops_!"

Uncrossing her arms and taking a step forward, Joan placed her hands on her hips and glared at him. "Oh, so you _wanted_ to be arrested? Is that it?" She asked and he groaned exasperatedly before throwing himself backwards onto the bed. The springs made his body bounce with the sudden unexpected weight, and Joan watched as he slammed both his hands to his face, pressing the heels of his palms against closed eyes, as though trying to stop an approaching migraine. "Besides," She added, as an after thought, "I'd like to think I know you fairly well."

"Gah!" He exclaimed, with a deep sense of frustration. "Hell, never mind." And then the room was silent again for several minutes, until he peeled his hands away from his face and looked at her, still standing there with her hands placed on her hips and glowering at him threateningly. He asked: "Why couldn't you do it?" and her expression shifted.

She sighed. "You remind me someone," she said after a moment, "someone important to me."

"Oh?" Dean said, shifting where he lay to get a better look at her, his expression was curious. "Who's that? Your ex-husband?" He reached down and plucked at the shirt he was wearing and Joan made a distasteful sound in the back of her throat.

"Hardly." She said, with all honesty, then hesitated before saying: "You remind me of my son."

Dean blinked then, and folded his arms behind his head. "Damn," he said in disbelief, "somehow I never pegged you as the type to want to raise a bunch of screaming brats." He apparently regretted these words the moment they were out of his mouth, because her expression hardened dangerously again.

"Boy, I _will_ kick you out of here." She threatened, jabbing her finger roughly towards the door and the sound of rain still pouring heavily outside. Dean gave her an apologetic look.

"Sorry, Joan, I didn't mean anything by it. It's just that I've never heard you talk about having kids, is all." Joan narrowed her eyes further at him, and Dean swallowed, seeming to become aware that he quickly and metaphorically digging himself into an early grave. Naturally he attempted to reroute the subject to safer ground. "So, what's your son's name?"

The corners of Joan's mouth quirked up into a small, sad smile. "His name was Josh." She said and the careless expression on Dean's face was quickly replaced.

"Was?" He asked, though by the look he was now giving her, Joan knew he didn't need to. Still she nodded.

"He died, seven years ago, now." The tone she used was soft and matter-of-factly. She realized too late that it was the sort of voice a grieving person might use when they wanted someone to believe they had accepted something that, inwardly, they couldn't, however, if Dean was aware of this, he didn't comment on it, and instead only looked at her with a knowing expression.

In the silence that followed this statement, Joan eyed the faded photograph on the mantel across the room; her son appeared barely older than nineteen with hazel eyes and a thick head of bright red hair, and waited for Dean to decide what he would say. In the back of her mind, she wondered if he would ask her the question everyone had wanted to know: _how did he die_? She hoped not, though, because she knew she wouldn't be able to tell him that, and then she wondered if he would maybe tell her about Sam. The brother he couldn't talk about, but spent sixty extra dollars on a bed for, just incase he showed up.

He didn't tell her about Sam though, and he didn't ask her what had happened. Instead, Dean shifted on the mattress, turning on his side and placing his hands beneath the pillow Joan had given him after they had finished unfolding the bed, he pulled his knees tightly up against his chest. "Joan, can you do me a favor?" he said, eyes staring unseeingly at the wall in front of him, and Joan tore her own misty ones away from the photograph.

"Of course," She said, not quite managing to smile, as he took in a breath, hesitating.

"Would you put salt along the doors and windows?"

Joan blinked at the request, and her eyes ran along the windows in the room and towards the front door, considering. "Sure, Dean. I can do that." She said, after a moment, thinking about the eight containers sitting unused inside the pantry in the kitchen. Then she looked at him lying there on the bed and said: "Your sorry ass is going to be the one cleaning it up though, you hear?"

If he did, Dean didn't answer, already being half asleep as he was, and Joan sighed, reaching up to wipe the dampness from her eyes, she went into the kitchen to fetch the salt. Two minutes later, she returned and carefully drew a line along the bottom of the door, as she had seen Dean do on more than one occasion, then set to work on the windows. Just as she finished, Dean spoke.

"Hey, Joan?" He whispered, and she turned to him. "Why did he. . .why did he have to leave me alone?" He asked, his voice so thick and slurred with sleep Joan knew instantly that he wasn't aware of the painful question he was asking, as she moved around the side of the bed and looked down at him. In his sleep, Dean's face was tear stained, and without thinking Joan reached out with her free hand and ran calloused fingers through his hair, damp and stiff from lack of rinse.

"I don't know, Dean." Joan replied, around the lump in her throat, as she thought about her son and the people she had never met, the ones that haunted Dean in his sleep.

"It's not fair. I. . .it's all my fault."

Joan blinked back tears and looked at him.. "What is, Dean?" She asked, and regretted it instantly as fresh tears spilled down Dean's face, his expression twisting in anguish.

"It's my fault." He said, "I killed them. I killed everyone." And he cried harder.

.:.

_**Five Hours Before** _

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?"

"What happened last night."

Dean looked at Joan from where he sat at the table in her kitchen, and inhaled deeply through his nose, before exhaling with a loud 'whoosh' of air. "Nope." He said, pursing his lips at her, before lifting the cup of coffee beside him up for a drink. Joan looked at him, standing beside the stove, and mimicked his expression momentarily, before her mouth turned downwards into a deep frown.

"Really?" She asked, with a false tone of disbelief that hardened, and became forceful. "Because I _really_ think we should." Dean's made a face then, partly at her, and partly because of the bitter taste in his mouth. He put the cup down.

"Got any sugar?" Joan's eyes narrowed at him then, as she stormed across the room, house shoes making a scuffling sound as she went. Dean watched her reach inside a tall wooden cabinet beside the fridge and emerge with a cookie jar, filled with white crystals. She carried it over to him at the table and prying the led off, pulled out a 16 fl. ounce measuring cup filled to the brim with sugar. Her eyes, alit with something akin to anger, never left Dean's as she upturned it into his coffee.

"Jeez, Joan!" Dean said, having noticed her intentions too late to pull his cup out of the way. "What's the heck was that for?" Joan glared at him before reaching over, and pulling out the chair next to him. She plopped down heavily into it as he lifted the spoon in his cup up and stared at his drink which was now less of a cup of coffee, and more of a dirt brown paste.

"Dean." She said sharply, as he pulled a face and he looked at her with a petulant scowl.

"What?" He shot back and she glowered, narrowing her eyes until he sighed in frustration. "Look, there's nothing to talk about, okay? I got a _little_ wasted last night, that's all." Beside him, Joan crossed her arms over her chest.

"Boy, if you honestly expect me to believe that, than you're more out of your head right now than you were last night." Joan's eyes narrowed, beside him.

"Honestly, I've put up with a lot of crap from you, with that sass mouth of yours, and the fake names and constantly changing phone numbers, but when you show up on a persons doorstep at two in the morning, drunk as a skunk with a gun in your hand talking about burning corpses, and _killing everyone_ then you've got yourself a problem. Now, I want answers, and I want them now." Joan paused and her glare diminished for a fraction of a second, her expression becoming thoughtful, before the look returned full force and she uncrossed her arms, waving the sugar cup -still held tightly in her hand- at him threateningly. "And let me warn you, if I find out you're some kind of sick serial killer who gets his kicks diddling little girls, your ass is grass."

Dean could feel his face flush red as he took in her words, and it was all he could do to bury his face in his hands and shake his head slowly. "It's not like that." He said, finally, his voice muffled. Joan raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, so you don't rape and murder little girls?" She paused, as though expecting him to deny this. "Well, that's a relief."

Dean groaned, and raised his head, eyes narrowed darkly at her. "I've never killed anyone." He said, softly. _At least not anyone human_ , he thought.

"That's not what you said last night."

"It's what I'm saying now, _sober_."

"Well, forgive me if I don't _believe_ you." Joan's voice was as unrelenting and stubborn as ever. Dean growled, feeling the muscles in his body tense. He tried valiantly to squash down the urge to start yelling, and worse, the urge not to cry, but he could already feel the pressure building in his head. In an act of desperation, Dean slammed his hand down hard upon the table, making Joan jump slightly as he pushed his chair back and stood up, turning away from her.

"Dean, tell me what happened." She said, and despite the use of his name, it was more of a demand than any sort of inquiry.

"I can't." Dean ground out, his body shaking with the effort he was expending to keep a level head.

"Yes, you can." Joan said, pressing. "Tell me."

"I can't." He said again, seized by the urge to bang his head against something. Hard. It wasn't true, after all. He could tell her. He could tell her but she'd think he was crazy, at least, crazier than she already thought he was. She'd probably have him committed. He told her this, instead and predictably, she rolled her eyes towards the ceiling.

"I already think you're a few fries short of a happy meal, boy. Spill it."

"No-"

"Dean."

"-I _can't_."

"Yes, you _can_."

"No!"

"Damn it, Dean, tell me what the hell happened!" And Joan was on her feet then, spinning him around, her fingers gripping at the fabric of Dean's borrowed shirt, and for the first time he saw the tears in her eyes. It was. . .strange. He had never seen her cry before. Not like this. Not the way that he had with her eyes red and blotchy, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably as she sobbed, clinging onto him.

She said: "Tell me so I don't. . .so I don't feel alone."

So he did.

.:.

_**Three Hours Thirty Minutes Before** _

"-and I left. That's it."

Joan looked at Dean across the table through puffy eyes, and it was silent for a long time as she attempt to digest everything he had just said. Finally, he heard her let out a low whistle, then: "Damn."

Dean looked up from the fresh mug of coffee in his hands and stared openly at her. "Damn?" He repeated, in disbelief. "That's all you have to say? No, 'you're out of yer bloomin' mind, boy? Get the hell out of my house you Satan worshiping son of a-"

"Boy," She cut him off. "Just because I don't know the first thing about hunting monsters, doesn't mean I never knew anyone that did." Dean's mouth dropped open as she reached over, and snatched the mug of coffee out from between Dean's hands. Mind reeling, he didn't bother to make an effort to stop her, instead waited in a semi-state of shock until she continued. "I had a great uncle who used to hunt the beasts. When I was a teenager, he used to tell me stories about it-" she paused, and took another sip of coffee. "-that is until my mother, God rest her soul, walked in on us."

"Let me guess," Dean said then, regaining his composure and glowering at the mug in her hands. "She thought he was crazy." Joan nodded.

"Dragged me and my older brother so far away from there, I never saw him again. I wasn't even sent an invitation to the funeral when he died." She added thoughtfully, before muttering something under her breath. He looked at her, and frowned.

"Did you know I was a Hunter?" He asked suddenly, and she shrugged.

"Honestly?" She asked and Dean nodded. "Didn't have a clue." He stared at her. "What? You sounded like a maniac, Dean. Besides, my uncle's adventures? That was a lifetime ago, and I was a little girl. Now I'm a divorced old woman, with nothing to her name but a handful of dusty old photographs, a basement full of her ex-husband's old clothes-" she eyed Dean's wardrobe, "-and you."

"Me?"

"Hmm." She said, nodding softly, before taking in a deep breath and adding: "Though, if I have my way it won't be for much longer."

Dean blinked. "What's that supposed to mean?" He asked, and she quirked her lips at him, before downing the rest of his coffee.

.:.

_**Two Hours Thirteen Minutes Before** _

"I'm not leaving here, Joan." Dean said, glowering at the woman from the passenger's seat of her beaten down Chevrolet.

"It's a hotel, Dean. You can't stay forever." She said pointedly, as she made a left turn, driving the familiar route to Steve's Hotel, her body operating mostly on autopilot as her brain was presently a bit preoccupied. Dean scoffed.

"Want to bet?" He asked, his tone stubborn.

Joan took a sharp breath of air, and looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "This isn't just your problem, Dean." She said, agitatedly, "If you don't suck it up and do something to stop Lucifer before he decides to make his move, everyone dies."

Dean made a face at her words, clearly not wanting to be remind of this. He said: "I can't do it Joan. I can't _kill_ Lucifer."

"Can't, or won't?"

"Both."

"What are you afraid of?"

"Nothing. I just can't do it."

"You told me the angels said you could." Joan reminded him, and Dean scowled.

"The angels can go screw themselves." Pause. "Aside from Cas," he said, and Joan noted, the way she had as he sat in her kitchen recounting the events that lead him here, the way his voice unconsciously softened when he said the name, "I've never met a damn one of them that did something for me, who didn't expect something in return."

"What about Anna?" Dean's expression soured further at the once fallen angel's name.

"Believe me, she made it quite clear to me the last time we spoke that I was nothing more to her than a convenient lay." He said, bitterly. Joan raised an eyebrow and he continued, ignoring her incredulous stare. "...So, as far as I'm concerned, they can fight this war all on their own. If they lose, well. . .I guess those pansy ass bastards shouldn't have been so damn arrogant."

Joan gave a frustrated sigh as she pulled into her usual spot in the employee parking lot, right next to Dean's Impala, and shut the engine off. "Oh, for the love of-"

The sound of the passenger side door opening and slamming shut, drowned out the end of her sentence, and she leaned her head against the steering wheel, watching as he disappeared inside the front office, where a flustered looking Mr. Daniels stood behind the counter, wrangling with an equally old man, and his small statured wife. Upon Dean's entrance, Mr. Daniels tore himself away from the tenant, and rounded on Dean. She could tell by the look on his wrinkled face that he was angrily demanding Dean's whereabouts, and reason for being late. In response, Dean flipped him the bird and Joan sighed leaning back in her seat, she cast her eyes up towards the heavens.

"God, knock some sense into that stupid S.O.B." Joan said, simply, then furrowing her brow, she added: "And by S.O.B. this time I mean Dean. He's going to get everyone killed because he's too much of a coward to do the right thing. So, please, just. . .help him. Or, help _me_ help him. I'm not picky, God. I don't care which, but-" As she sat in the front seat, rambling to the upholstering of her Chevrolet, Joan saw something shift in her peripheral vision and turning her eyes to the side, she flung herself violently back into the drivers side door and shouted: "- _Holy Jesus, Mother Mary, Joseph and the Camel_!"

The man in the passenger’s seat turned his head to her, perpetually sad blue eyes reflecting perfect calm despite the words that had just launched themselves out of her mouth. "Hello, Joan." He said, "My name is Castiel."

.:.

_**Two Hours Before** _

Dean groaned, sitting back on his hunches, eyes scanning over the bottom shelf of the supply closet with disdain. He scowled at the lack of actual supplies, muttering under his breath about cheap old bastards, as he heard the bell on the door of the front office ring. "Damn, it's about time, Joan." He called out to her, reaching for a bottle of Ajax and wondering if they could use it as a bleach if they mixed it with water. "I was starting to think you'd died out there." He added, standing and exiting the tiny space, he blinked harshly, his eyes adjusting to the drastic shift in light.

As he looked towards the door, and Joan, Dean froze, the container falling from his hand with a clatter, spilling poisonous white powder out across the floor as it rolled away from him. He took very little notice of this, as his eyes were transfixed on the somewhat scruffy looking man standing beside Joan. After a long moment of silence, Dean let out a strangled sort of sound. "Cas?" He rasped in shock, taking an unconscious step forward and the man smiled at him as best he could.

"Hello, Dean." He said softly, as Dean continued to stare. "It is. . .good to see you again."

In the back of his throat, Dean made another strangled sound, and he could feel his eyes stinging as they misted over with tears. He fought to control the emotions rising up inside of him. "How. . .what. . .why are you here?" He managed out, his lower lip quivering.

Castiel turned his eyes away from Dean, momentarily, before raising them in Joan's direction. "I'm here, because she asked me to come." He said, softly in his usual rough tone and Joan raised her hands in a kind of white-flag gesture, jumping away from the man as he said this.

"Whoa!" She exclaimed, looking at Dean, whose eyes had snapped to her in confusion. "I did no such thing." She insisted, shooting Castiel a glare. He moved his head to the side in a conceding way and amended his statement.

"She merely requested help on your behalf." He said, but Dean wasn't listening, as he shoved past them and stormed out of the office, his shoes tracking white chemicals behind him as he walked across the parking lot. When he reached the door to his hotel room, Dean jammed the key inside the lock and slammed it open with such force that it banged against the opposite wall and rebounded closed.

He stood there, then, in the middle of the room and took in a string of deep calming breaths, trying not to think about the way Castiel had stood there looking at him with those eyes of his- _of Jimmy's_ -as he said: _"Hello, Dean. It is. . .good to see you again."_ like maybe he really meant what he had said. Like maybe, maybe he really cared for him.

Dean's jaw tightened at the thought. "No." He said, aloud to the empty air as he moved forward, dropping down next to his bed and pulling out the black duffle bag stashed there. Thoughtlessly, he tossed it up onto the bed and pulling open the zipper, he began to deposit what little he owned inside even while knowing he would never make it out the door before-

"Dean." Castiel said, softly. Dean didn't even jump at his presence. "Dean, you shouldn't be angry with her. She was only trying to help." He said.

"I'm not mad at Joan." Dean snapped back, honestly, as he made his way across the room, wrenching the top drawer of the dresser open and carrying it back to the bed, where he upturned it over the duffle bag.

Behind him, Cas sighed and, even though he knew he shouldn't, Dean let the wooden drawer fall onto the bed as he turned his head to look at him.

Cas was standing with his back to the wall, head bowed so that the fringe of dark hair on his head fell over his eyes, shielding them almost completely from view as he said: "I see. It's me then."

Dean hesitated to answer, instead, reaching to stuff the rest of his affects into the bag. When it would hold nothing else, he pulled the zipper closed again and stood there beside the bed. "Yes." He said slowly, after a moment, closing his eyes against the tide of anger welling up inside of him, then without thinking he rounded on the other man. "Yes, damn it." He said, "I'm fucking mad at you, you son of a bitch!"

And as he spoke, Dean's legs carried him forward, until he was standing there before Castiel, his hands shaking at his sides with the force of his emotions. Tears slid hot and wet down his face. "You bastard, how could you do it?" He demanded, glaring at the man.

"Do what?"

"Abandon me when I lost _everyone!_ Damn it, Cas, I _needed you_ and you just disappeared! You ran away like a fucking coward!"

Castiel's eyes looked calmly back at him. "Like you ran?" He asked, the ghost of an emotion rising up inside of him. Dean's knuckles turned white, and he swallowed down the lump rising in his throat as he registered the truth of the angel's words. The anger alighting his eyes flickered out and died.

"I didn't know what else to do." He said, then, his voice soft and desperate. "I had no one. I was alone."

"You had Bobby."

Dean inhaled a sharp breath. "But not you." He said, hating himself the second the words were out of his mouth, but knowing he was far too stubborn to take them back, even as Castiel eyed him speculatively.

"Why would you want me, Dean Winchester?" He asked, and there was something in the way he said that -disgust maybe- that made Dean lower his gaze, and step back.

A split second later, he let out a startled shout as Castiel's hand closed around his arm and he found himself pushed back against the wall. He struggled uselessly. "Cas, what the hell are you doing?" He demanded, after a moment, "I-" but the rest of his words died in his throat as Cas leaned closer, invading his personal space.

Dean looked at Cas, looking at him, pinned there against the wall with a curious expression as he said:

"Giving you what you want." before his lips came crashing down onto Dean's.

.:.

"Did it hurt?"

"No, why do you ask?"

"You kept whispering under your breath. You were crying."

"No... I was praying." His voice was soft as he spoke, and Dean shifted on the bed, propping himself up on his elbows, he looked at Castiel lying there beside him.

He swallowed thickly. "Cas, I-" he began but the angel cut him off.

"You shouldn't worry," He said, hesitating to add: "after all, I'm still here." And as though he could not fully believe this himself, Castiel raised Jimmy's hand into the air and turned it over. As he watched him, Dean forced the anxiety inside of him to fade, and he lay back down, resting his head beside Cas's on the pillow. Together, they marveled at this for some time, a comfortable silence settling between them, until some ten to fifteen minutes later, Castiel dropped his hand and Dean heard him sigh.

"You have to stop him, Dean." He said softly, and Dean closed his eyes, shifting to bury his face into the pillow.

"I know." He said, and his voice sounded muffled to his ears. The bed creaked and moved as Cas shifted, and a second later Dean felt his fingers, warm against his skin. Grudgingly, he turned his face from the pillow, and met Cas's gaze.

"You'll have to do it, Dean." He said, "you'll have to fight Sam." This wasn't something Dean wanted to think about, not at the moment. What he _wanted_ was to lay there in that bed forever, with Cas, but clearly this was not an option, so he pushed himself up, and sat back on his knees.

"I know." He repeated, as Cas looked at him apologetically. Dean rapt his eyes to him. "...Cas, you won't leave will you?" He asked, feeling almost fearful. Castiel shook his head, softly.

"No, Dean." He said. "I promise, I'll stay with you until the end."

Dean considered this for a moment, taking in Cas's promise seriously before his eyes narrowed in feigned outrage. "What the hell do you mean 'until the end'?" He demanded, then huffed. "Damn it, Cas," He said, "you'd better be planning to stay with me forever."

.:.

_**A Few Minutes Before** _

As Joan stood in front of the hotel room, - _Dean's_ hotel room- and watched as he picked up the small black duffle bag, filled with everything he owned and deposited it into the back seat of the Impala, Dean turned to her. "Hey Joan, can you do me one last favor?" He asked, closing the door and moving forward. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a familiar piece of crumpled paper and held it out to her. "Make sure Bobby Singer gets this?" Joan took it in careful hands and nodded as he paused to reach into his pocket again. He pulled out a yellow sticky note and she took that as well.

"It's pretty permanent," He said. "...so, you can call me, you know, if you need anything." Dean rubbed at the back of his neck and shifting from foot to foot as he spoke and Joan smiled softly, examining the number.

"This is especially valid for Apocalyptic events I take it?" She asked lips quirking up at the sides. Dean rolled his eyes and she nodded then. "I'll call you."

"Good." He said with an awkward smile. His hands twitching at his sides and shook her head.

"For the love of God, boy." She said, stepping forward and pulling him into a sudden hug. Dean hesitated before raising his arms and hugging her back with that same boyish awkwardness. When she let him go, Dean stepped back instantly, and gave her an apologetic look.

"Sorry, for this." He said after a moment and she shrugged.

"Everyone leaves sometime or another." She said, with a soft smile and he nodded, before walking over to the car, his face tinged a light red. Joan watched him pause, though, with his hand on the driver's side door as he looked up at her. She stared back at him, and Castiel sitting there in the passenger's seat like a normal human.

Dean hesitated. "...Hey, Joan." He said, slowly, and she fixed her eyes on him. "You never... you never told me how it happened." He said, and Joan didn't need to ask 'how what happened' because it was obvious. She gave him a small smile, one that was sad, but accepting.

"Next time, Dean, I'll tell you. . .and Sam both." She added, and her expression was hopeful and determined. "Now, go save the world."

.:.

As she watched Dean's Impala drive out of the parking lot, tearing out onto the road in a cloud of smoke, Joan opened the letter in her hands, and stared down at the familiar words written shakily upon the page:

 _Bobby,_ it said, _I'm sorry. I tried._

Joan smiled softly at the last words, crossed out furiously in black ink so that they were almost unreadable. Beside them in the same black ink, were new words:

_I'm still trying._

Joan read these words aloud to herself and smiled. "That's good, Dean. That's real good."


End file.
